They marched until the light slanted gold through the trees. At the next rise, the group dropped to a crouch, Soren's hand up in a flat halting signal. Ahead, across the clearing, were four bodies: three hunched over a low fire, the fourth standing with a spear, scanning the treeline. Soren counted their kit, no insignia, but the boots and cut of the jackets said mercenary, not bandit. The dogs, two of them, dozed by the fire, noses twitching.
He motioned the twins left, Seren right. Kale settled Jannek behind a fallen log, then drew his blade and grinned. Soren felt the old rush, fear, focus, a clarity that only came before things got ugly.
He waited for the twins to signal, then moved forward, keeping low. The wind shifted, smoke drifting their way. The dogs' heads came up, but neither raised alarm. Soren wondered if they were trained not to.
